


Save My Soul

by SpaceGoat



Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 5
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Prohibition Era, Bisexual Male Character, Blasphemy, Flappers, Flirting, Gay Male Character, Jazz Age, M/M, Male Homosexuality, No Cult AU, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Slang, Smoking, Speakeasies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-03-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:41:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23221132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpaceGoat/pseuds/SpaceGoat
Summary: In 1920s Atlanta, the Eden's Gate speakeasy is the talk of the town. Behind a secret wall in a Christian bookstore lies flappers in golden halos, a speciality cocktail to die for, and a new headline act: a slick young jazz singer by the name of Rook.The Rook is charming, handsome, and quick with a wisecrack... and so is Eden's Gate's flamboyant director, who has just caught his eye.Liquor ain't a sin, why should lust be?
Relationships: John Seed/Original Male Character(s), Male Deputy | Judge/John Seed
Comments: 9
Kudos: 28





	Save My Soul

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cannibal_cat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cannibal_cat/gifts).



> Hello everyone! Hope you're all keeping calm and staying healthy in this midst of all this chaos!
> 
> This story is lovingly dedicated to cannibal-cat on Tumblr, who had the idea for a 1920s AU and graciously allowed me to write it! Absolute joint credit goes to her! I'd have never even though to write this without her wonderful suggestion! It is inspired by Big Bad Voodoo Daddy's song Save My Soul, which is an absolute tune that you should all go and listen to!
> 
> Not entirely sure how long it's going to be, I haven't really planned very much... as in, haven't planned at all tbh! But I'm excited to go on the adventure with you! Also please feel free to imagine almost everyone with thick Southern accents in this- I wrote all the dialogue with this in mind!
> 
> Have fun, and hell, why not treat yourself to some liqour while it's still legal ahahaha

The Rook wasn’t a man of any great faith.

His mama and grandmama had told him his voice was God-given. He’d sang in the church choir as a kid, in the backwater town in Montana he’d grown up in. That had been back in the late 1800s, when seeing the automobile was akin to witnessing the second coming of Christ, being in moving pictures wouldn’t make you a star, and the world hadn’t been shaken by war. Every member of his family’s congregation had regurgitated the same. A gift from the heavens. Truly blessed. _The boy sings like an angel._

But The Rook just didn’t buy it.

He refused to believe in a God who’d let the fuzz take his whiskey.

And yet, here he found himself, stood gazing up at a dilapidated Christian bookshop. Bibles of every denomination and publications on theology and creationism and the clergy and the heathen decorated every shelf. The beige paint was peeling, the windows unwashed, a mural of Jesus and the Virgin Mary above the door had faded to the point of being a mural of just about anyone, and there was a collection of unopened milk bottles on the front step.

He fingered the edge of his black fedora and grimaced a little.

This _hardly_ seemed to be his sort of scene.

It was early 1926, and the moon was full and high through the smoky streets, like a shiny nickel dropped into an ashtray. The streets of Atlanta were chilly in January, and the sleek feathers bristling on the shoulders of his black double-breasted suit weren’t exactly for anything other than a little bit of flair. You had to have flair if you were going to survive in this business. A dandy, dapper guy would catch the eye of a discerning proprietor, and have a slot in the evening show that was sure to grab headlines.

However, _he_ wasn’t in the business of headlines.

No, The Rook wasn’t a nationwide phenomenon for his frequenting of the tabloids... but for his rep as a somewhat anonymous regular on the circuit of salacious, less than legal establishments.

The papers called them ‘speakeasy’. 

The Rook certainly found he could sing real easy in the warm embrace of a liquor soaked clientele.

And _Eden’s Gate_ was the talk of the town.

 _“A place to pray whilst drinking the pain away”_.

Run by a supposed man of God, one Joseph Seed, a permanent fixture in many a detective's case. Racketeering, intimidation, and the flouting of just about every law that this era of prohibition had to offer. Yet not one speck of dirt on him. Not a single criminal charge brought against him, such was the slick organisation and tight-knit loyalty within his operation. The man had never even set foot in a _police station_ , let alone a courtroom.

Pushing his shoulders back, and brushing a cigarette ash from his lapel, The Rook rapped loudly on the rotting door. Needing to put on a show for any lurking busybodies, he cleared his throat, took a deep breath from his well-trained diaphragm, and loudly pronounced his business.

“Preacher Seed? Begging your pardon for the lateness of the hour, but I’m a wayward soul in need of saving.”

Silence seeped out of the misted glass panes.

_Did he have the right address?_

He’d given no forward notice, after all. No one was expecting him… and so naturally no one had rolled out the welcome wagon. All he had was a scrap of paper from an old friend- the owner of an establishment in New York called ‘Marshall’s’- bearing a name, a street and a password.

Another knock, this time more pronounced. More assured.

Nothing.

Just the distant hubbub of metropolitan Atlanta.

“Damn you, Bug-Eyed Burke, got me another flat tire” The Rook scuffed his shoe on the sidewalk (promptly regretting it when dust coated it) and turned to go, pulling his hat low onto his face again.

Behind him, a creak.

A thin, unassuming man had opened the door. 

_He certainly looks like a dirt-poor preacher_ , The Rook assessed. Greasy modesty, with a patchy suit and round spectacles balanced on his nose. There was a Bible tucked under his arm, bound in white leather, gold leaf crucifix embossed into the spine. Was he in the wrong place? Had he just knocked on the _real_ church’s door, where he’d get nothing but communion wine?

_Blood of Christ’ll do when you’re desperate._

“Preacher Seed?”

The man shook his head.

“I’m Seed by name, Joseph to my friends, but I’m no preacher, my child. But perhaps I can still be of assistance? Tell me… are you plagued by vices? Green with envy? Consumed by pride? Got a one-way ticket to the Devil?”

No, The Rook assured himself, this _was_ the place. He’d seen such theatrics before, out in some of the more lavish places in Chicago and New York. 

The password settled onto his lips.

“Seems to me, we’re all in Hell anyway.”

Joseph Seed nodded approvingly and allowed the door to swing open enough for The Rook to slip in beside him. The shop was just as decrepit on the inside as it was out, if not more so, from the piles of shredded books that were strewn across the floor. Dank and dark, save for tiny streams of moonlight breaking through the cracks in the roof. Pages torn from their bindings, and heaped into corners as though a match, or stray cigarette, was to be taken to them. Parts of the wooden panelling on the walls had been chipped away with a pry bar, exposing the mouldy plaster beneath. The whole place smelled like mildew and incense… incense that had been burned about a decade ago.

“Forgive the mess, my child. Old Gumshoe Whitehorse and his men are not frugal about their cleanup operations after a raid.”

The Rook took a wander amongst the devastation, drinking it all in.

“Not to worry, sir. I've seen places blown to hell by cops. Whole joints nothing but smithereens. Least _you've_ still got four walls standing."

When there was no reply, The Rook turned to face the gentleman again, and found himself at the mercy of a scrutinizing gaze, as the preacher-not-preacher sized him up. Remembering his manners, he quickly removed his hat and tucked it under one arm, smoothing down his hair to ensure that no fly-aways would besmirch his observer’s good opinion of him. Checking his collar had not carelessly strayed over his lapel, nor his tie slipped. He was still desperately aware of the dust on his shoe.

However, Joseph Seed had no concern for it.

Instead, with somewhat a degree of bafflement upon his face, Joseph reached out to inspect the feathery epaulettes stitched to his suit jacket, with seemingly no regard for personal space or permission. The Rook watched him spread the barbs, coloured like ink, with utter fascination, as a child would. Letting them blossom out and the darkness climb through the spaces, before they fell back into formation.

“Most odd.” He remarked under his breath. “Perhaps more suited to Odin and his ravens in Valhalla? But beautiful nonetheless.”

He stepped back and, astonishingly, appeared quite the businessman. A man who inspired… _loyalty._

"So you are _The Rook_."

"Indeed I am, sir."

“I heard you were making the rounds here in the south. Tennessee, at the Nash Rathskeller last week, wasn’t it? I am good friends with the owner, he spoke well of you. I can’t say we’d been expecting a visit though.”

The Rook spied an opportunity for a bit of flattery. In a business where reputation was everything, a little well timed sycophancy always went in his favour. He had the good sense to be careful though, never to kiss ass (or compliment a man’s daughter) and his intuition told him to keep things simple in Joseph Seed’s case. The man might not truly be a poor preacher, but he certainly dressed like one, and men of the cloth and ego did not always go hand in hand.

“I couldn’t resist, Mr Seed. Woulda walked on water, if I could, to see this place.”

Joseph nodded once graciously and adjusted his spectacles, which had slipped a little.

“You are very kind, Mr Rook... Is there a first name to go with that?”

"Not one I like being used, sir. My mama named me for my no-good drunken father. I prefer to let it die with him."

“I see.” Joseph gestured for him to follow, and together they moved into the indistinct labyrinth of the bookshop. The Rook had never seen so many Bibles in his whole life… neither had he ever seen a bootlegger so... measured. Calm. _Restrained_ . The Rook got the feeling that the man never quite let himself get excited about _anything_ . He gave over an intense serenity that seemed impenetrable. As though his emotions had taken a vow of silence, committed themselves to sit quietly and _reflect_ upon existence rather than _experience_ it.

Quite the opposite of most folks who decided to open a speakeasy.

 _Infamously_ hotbeds of well… _violent crime._

So he decided to _relax_ a little _._ No need to put on airs and graces. It didn’t exactly feel like Mr Seed was about to pull a gun on him, as many a fella had done previously.

After all… he was a man of _God._

“Well Mr Seed, if it’s no trouble, I’ll get into the swing of things right off the bat, and order myself a Bloody Mary... though don’t bother making it Virgin. What’s with all the Christian mumbo jumbo anyway?”

Joseph smiled at him enigmatically. “Because we do good Christian work here, Mr Rook. Jesus turned water into wine… and so do we.”

“... Can you turn tomato juice into a good time?”

“Indeed we can.”

At the end of their procession through the winding shelves and rat-nibbled boxes, the mysterious proprietor led The Rook to a storage cupboard. It lay at the back of the shop and simultaneously looked both entirely normal, and yet _indescribably_ suspicious. Apparently ‘Gumshoe’ Whitehorse had also thought so, because there were significantly more pry bar indentations here than anywhere else in the shop. Almost all wooden panels had been removed… only these were neatly stacked and covered with a richly embroidered cloth. Rather reminiscent of an _altar._ Atop lay an ashtray, with an ancient rosary beside it.

Joseph laid the Bible in his hands down upon it, and opened the cover.

It was _hollow_.

“Eleventh commandment, right there.” The Rook smirked, “Thou shalt hide thy tools of dissent within the Word of God.”

Nestled into a space lined with white silk was a small golden key… or part of it, distinctive teeth ready to bite into a lock. And The Rook watched as the man before him retrieved the rosary and fixed the crucifix onto the key head, as a handle. His heart, hammering in his chest with anticipation.

Joseph moved to a nearby light fixture, and as he set to removing it from the wall, The Rook leaned casually against the storeroom doorway and asked:

“So it’s right here, and the fuzz really couldn’t find it?”

“A man’s ambition can often be blinding, Mr Rook.”

Behind the lamp, a gouge in the wall, with frayed wiring dribbling from it. And within the empty space, concealed by the tatty wallpaper and the darkness… a hole, perfectly shaped for a key. Joseph slid the crucifix within the mechanism. He paused, holding it in place, before singing softly a rough voice laced with mystery, steeped in a hypnotic, theatrical _divinity_ . Quiet. Solemn. But enticing, _beckoning_ :

“ _Was blind, but now I see._ ”

And in the space of a breath...

The wall slid open...

_There it was._

_Wonders to behold._

He felt as though he had wandered into the lair of the Forty Thieves, so luxurious and decadent was the establishment before him. No more dust and devastation, but ruby velvet on every seat, glass dripping from the ceiling as though it were an heiress’s throat. Electric lamps lining the walls, walls that were papered in jade, the golden glow allowing the rich wooden furnishings to bask like orange trees on a Sicilian peak. Floors, polished and sprung. A mural to rival the Sistine Chapel daubed across the ceiling, presenting each of Dante’s Circles of Hell and it’s victims in tantalizingly morbid detail.

The Rook could hear the laughter of merry patrons, of lovers in each other’s arms. Glasses clinking and feet squeaking across the dancefloor. Cries of merciful deliverance and thanks for being delivered from their suffering, offered to the heavens for the chance to let go and _indulge_.

And he breathed:

“Mr Seed… I think you’ve made me a believer.”

It surely had to be a miracle that it hadn't been rooted out yet. Probably once a warehouse or a factory, The Rook could almost hear the ghost of workmen rolling barrels, ranting about their wives, the rattle of loose plumbing. Smell rotting fish and pungent dyes as they were soaked into fabric. Soap bubbling on the hands of a hundred washerwomen, the toxic glow of radon in the wristwatches, the clink of hair tonic bottles as they were loaded into crates to be shipped. 

No... those days were evidently _long_ past.

Moving into the room, he could see a row of dancers rehearsing on a stage at the far end. Tapping to a maestro’s bouncing swing number. A _rare_ sight. Most speakeasies would have their performers crushed into a corner by the bar. Each woman in the chorus line was slender, with hair finger-waved to the point of plasticity, and styled in white lace and beading, feathers, flower garlands and halos. 

_The Angels_ were emblazoned across floor to ceiling length posters to either side of the proscenium arch, with their star dancer, the radiant Faith Jessop, beckoning enticingly to the onlooker in bold black and white print.

_“All you need is a little Faith.”_

And there she was, centre, front row, made up to the nines, and smiling like she’d been told her life depended on it. 

She couldn’t have been older than twenty. Pretty and blonde, with full lips that could almost certainly pout with enough sway to always get what she wanted. The Rook wondered if her family knew what she was up to. No doubt she was a small-town girl too, pretending to be a secretary in her letters home. _The clichés of a life on the stage_ . If either of his folks had been alive, _he’d_ have claimed to be running deliveries for a fishmonger.

If only Faith’s parents could have seen her here, illuminating the stage with holy light.

Step, two three, turn, step, turn, step with a smile-

“-God, give me STRENGTH-!” A shrill voice cut through the music, and the heavenly ambient haze immediately came crashing back down to the grimy backstreets of Atlanta. A slight figure stood up from one of the many tables rooted across the speakeasy floor, and flounced towards the stage in a fury, sending chairs skittering as he went. The Rook knew a director when he saw one, even if, from his perch at the back of the hall, this one was shrouded in shadow.

“Must I ask _again_ ? Darling, if I’d wanted to book _Buster Keaton_ as my principal dancer, I’d have got _him_. You wanna be an Angel, you have to dance like one.”

Faith slouched her shoulders and tilted her head towards the speaker, breaking free from the ranks. 

It clearly wasn’t the first time they’d had this conversation.

“You’d be lucky to drink the hair oil stains from his pillow. I _am_ the Angels, Mister.”

“With those flat feet? I’ve seen more grace from the _drunks_ on Peachtree-” 

“Well, maybe if I wasn’t half-starved, I’d dance a little better.” She pouted, ruffling her wings in protest. Behind her, the other dancers followed suit, a few taking a moment to adjust the straps of their shoes, or to complain about holes in their stockings.

The director sighed dramatically, aghast, and threw a nearby feather boa over his shoulders, caressing the soft plumage between his fingers. Clearly he carried such an extravagant accessory for just these occasions. Returning to his seat, he retorted:

“Jesus fasted for forty days and forty nights. Get to forty-one, _then_ you can complain.. _._ ”

“May I get you a drink, Mr Rook?” Joseph was suddenly guiding him away from the commotion towards the bar, and The Rook let himself be carried by the momentum. A drink would calm his nerves. Even for a seasoned professional, sealing a new booking always took a strength of will that he hadn’t quite mastered. “I know you requested a Bloody Mary, but I have a recommendation, if you’d oblige? Our speciality is to die for.”

The bar was a jaw-dropping art-deco affair, with emerald tiles and decorative glass insets, and geometric strips of white light. A thousand glasses stood glistening in rows, regimented and spotless, above a veritable rainbow of liquor bottles. Whiskeys, gins, scotch, champagne, bottles of wine claiming to be worth $60 or more. Buckets of ice, vials of tomato juice and tonic water and the familiar dark glass of Coca Cola, pitted olives, perfectly sliced wedges of all varieties of citrus.

Impeccably kept, to the point of neuroticism.

The Rook’s mouth watered just looking at it.

“My eldest brother, Jacob, is the keeper of the bar.” Joseph moved behind it to fix The Rook a drink, “As you can see, he likes to keep things organised.”

“Sure does. He got problems?” The Rook regretted the words the moment they hit the end of his tongue, but Joseph simply nodded.

“He’s a man of war, Mr Rook. He cleans glasses as he cleans rifles. He’d be here to tell you all the old tales of heroism himself, but his health isn’t what it used to be, and he needs to be fighting fit for the big show tomorrow. I have no doubt you’ll see him then and you’ll know when you do.”

Within moments, The Rook was presented with a tall martini glass, brimming with a pea green cocktail. There was a white haze spilling over the rim of the glass, misty, with a soft, cloudy quality that made him feel a little sleepy as he gazed at it. It smelt sweet, unlike anything he’d ever experienced before- of mint and cucumber and a swirl of lime, and a sharp edge of something unknown. It was served on the rocks, a small crucifix carved delicately into each, and a white flower floated gently on the surface, like a lily on a pond.

As it hit his tongue, he felt a surge of warmth within his throat.

It was… _exquisite._

“This certainly _tastes_ like good Christian work,” He chuckled, taking another sip, and Joseph smiled at him genuinely.

“It’s our primary export. We call it ‘Bliss’. It’s an old family recipe.”

“This an old family place too?”

“A family investment, yes. Old, not at all. We decided to buy the warehouse and open this place to show those in power that they are not God. That they cannot keep man from enjoying the smaller pleasures in life, especially when not a soul gets hurt doing it.” Joseph surveyed his project with a pride so potent, it was as though he had never laid eyes on it before, “Good company, _stirring_ entertainment, and fine liquor.”

The Rook raised his glass to such a noble endeavour and took another deep swig of Bliss. His craving for a Bloody Mary was long forgotten.

“And the bookstore?”

“Our father’s.” 

“Ah.”

Joseph didn’t elaborate and The Rook instinctively knew not to push. And so the two men fell into a short awkward pause, filled loosely with more halting sips of Bliss and roaming gazes at the pristine bar operation. A single droplet of condensation slithered down to the base of his glass to marr the chestnut countertop, and The Rook felt an overwhelming urge to produce his handkerchief and mop it up.

Didn't want to be spoiling things. _Figure I'd find out what the real circles of Hell look like if this Jacob Seed found I'd let his counter get waterlogged._ No doubt being a soldier, the man was built like a brick shithouse, broad shouldered, core muscles made from steel just as much as the Brooklyn Bridge was. Taking a knock to the head from him was probably less preferable than some of Dante’s more creative punishments.

Lost in imagining a man with a fist the size of the Statue of Liberty’s little toe, he realised Joseph was talking at him again.

“Begging your pardon, sir?”

Joseph tilted his head.

“I said, since you’ve come so far, we most certainly will be making use of you... and offered you a slot in our new spectacular. Perhaps you’ll do us the honour of opening it?”

The Rook was a little taken aback by how quickly the deal seemed to be sealed. He knew he was _famous_ in his profession, but he’d always had to do a little grafting to get the gig.

“I’d… I’d be _honoured_ , sir.” He grinned, not even trying to disguise his amazement. “But… wouldn’t you wanna hear me sing first? Lotta charlatans in this business.”

“No need. I have _faith_.”

Joseph chuckled a little at his own joke.

“We open tomorrow night. The evening is titled ‘ _Salutis’_. Judgement Day, collapse, the world on fire... Folks enjoy the bloodier parts of theology.”

“Sounds… _rapturous_.”

“It certainly will be.” 

Suddenly feeling guilty, he indeed moved to clean up after himself: "Well, thanks Mr Seed. This really is a swell joint. I'm real touched that you'll let me sing here."

"The pleasure will be all ours, I’m sure." 

The Rook tucked his dampened handkerchief back into his jacket pocket, and saw Joseph giving him an approving smile for the respect towards his brother’s pride and joy. His new employer gave the counter a once over with a cloth too, shining it up like shoes on a metropolitan street. _Never seen a place like it_. Most speakeasies were run down. Run by folks who weren’t all that concerned with how clean the place was, more with how many bucks they could make a minute.

It spurred a memory in him.

_Boozing in New Orleans._

_Whole place smelt of piss._

“You know, Mr Seed,'' He pondered aloud, “I think I got a number in mind for your show already. Little ditty about my time in Louisiana. Definitely a _lotta_ sin down there. I’m sorta in need of some soul saving just _thinking_ about it-”

_CRASH._

A commotion came from over on the stage and the two gentlemen at the bar turned towards the noise. A dancer in the back row lay slumped on the floor, whimpering pathetically from where she’d landed so heavily, legs splayed in the air, heels thwacking the girls beside her as she’d gone down. Pitiful noises, like those of a starving animal, came slipping from her rouged lips. _Begging_ for attention. For _sympathy_.

 _She’ll be lucky,_ The Rook thought.

And lucky she was _not._

Well, apparently not in the way he’d _imagined._

"HOLLY, THANK YOUR LUCKY STARS YOU’RE A BROAD, BECAUSE IF YOU WERE A HORSE, I’D BE PUTTING A BULLET BETWEEN YOUR EYES-”

The director was screaming again.

Faith Jessop was yawning… and _sulking_ at the new delay _._

Anything but the picture of beauty.

“Yeah, _tootsie_ ” One of the other girls was whining to the girl at her feet, “Now we gotta do the whole number _again-_ ”

“QUIT YAPPING, SELENA-” A cacophony of voices cried out, and soon, the entire stage had erupted into loud arguing. Cursing and bitching and empty threats to throw the clumsy young thing out onto the streets-

At the sound of it all, venomous and unforgiving, The Rook downed the rest of his Bliss in a single heavy gulp. He’d regret it later, but for now, it seemed to help. At least… he _hoped_ it would help. The idea of singing in front of these people, let alone singing _well_ through the nerves and the drink and the lateness of the hour, made him want to just curl up under the bar and _die_.

Joseph gazed knowingly at him and through a smirk suggested: "Perhaps, since you'll be treading the boards tomorrow night, it is time I introduce you to our director."

Wishing slightly that Bug-Eyed Burke from New York _had_ given him the wrong address, The Rook traipsed after his new employer, feeling butterflies beginning to flutter against the lining of his stomach. Sweat slowly dampening the back of his shirt under his jacket. Whoever this director was didn't exactly sound _accommodating._ Oh, he had no second guesses as to his talent, and no director's critique would ever make him think otherwise. His voice was _God-given._ Everyone said so. Hell, the _New York Times_ had said so.

Still didn’t mean he was prepared to be _eviscerated._

Reputation was all.

And one bad review?

_Career-ending._

Getting closer to the man in the feather boa. Slim, but somewhat short. _Not that he needed height to be the biggest presence in the room_ , The Rook thought, trying to swallow the lump in his throat. He could see all the dancers’ faces now, in perfect detail. All of them with the colour drained from their cheeks, dark rings under their eyes… The evening’s gathering was evidently not the first midnight rehearsal they’d attended this week.

“So what was it _this_ time, Holly? Did you see the Virgin Mary in the rafters again?” The director was spitting, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. The Rook would have put money on the fact that he’d not hit the hay for three days, at the very _least_.

“I’m sorry, Mister-“ The slightly buck-toothed, smouldering eyed brunette piped up as she clambered to her feet, slipping a little on her kitten heels: “I just came over all faint.”

“Well, you fall on your ass again, you do it in a customer’s lap, got it?”

She nodded.

“FROM THE TOP!”

The dancers took their places again. Smiles back and brighter than ever.

But The Rook distinctly heard Holly mutter, “Last time I fell in _your_ lap, Mister, I started eating for _two-_ ” and wondered quite incredulously just what possessed the young woman to open her legs for such a piece of work.

“John?”

The director spun on his heel to meet his brother’s eye, and The Rook was finally faced with the tyrant in a feather trim.

_Oh._

**_That’s_ ** _why._

“You’d better get your archangel to start showing me the light, Joe” John approached, throwing his hands in the air, frustrated and abandoning his feather boa, “There’s only so many lazy chasses a man can watch before he abandons his faith and turns to devilry.”

Behind him, Faith Jessop threw a dirty glare.

He was flamboyantly swathed in a plum velvet waistcoat and Paisley cravat, folded with great care into the unbuttoned collar of his white shirt. Where his shirtsleeves were rolled and buttoned at the elbow, religious iconography stained his forearms in black ink, tattooed in the throes of passion… or perhaps in a silent confession box, as his penitence. Dark lipstick and rouge adorned his powdered, handsome face, eyes smudged with a dash of charcoal, and his hair was slicked in keeping with the fashion, carefully chosen loose strands curling softly over his brow.

He was the most _beautiful_ man The Rook had ever seen.

John’s slender fingers pulled a cigarette from his waistcoat pocket and he lit it with all the grace and practise of a silent movie star. And as the flame caught on the tobacco, his gaze caught the feathers on The Rook’s jacket, appearing oily in the dim light. Slowly it devoured the singer, lingering on the lines of his broad shoulders, the cut of his suit, his clean-shaven chin and the sparkle of his black eyes before he deigned to speak.

“Well, look at you, doll. Dressed to impress.”

The Rook had played this game many times before, and had known with a single look that he was _very_ willing to enter into it again.

“You noticed.”

“It’s my job to notice.” The director took a long drag of his cigarette, “I saw that my brother is plying you with Bliss. Mighty fine stuff, isn’t it? I’ve never met a soul who didn’t take to it. You here on business?”

“Right again.”

“Dressed like that, and with that twinkle in your eye, I certainly won’t put you down as an investor or the Mrs Grundy sort. Which makes me think you’re here for a little… _fun._ ”

The Rook felt his fear melt away.

“If you’re willing.”

John smiled, perfect teeth moving to bite his lip just a touch.

“Flirting, at this hour? The night is early, doll. Might wanna ease up a little.”

Joseph seemed unphased by his director’s behaviour.

“Mr Rook, this is my youngest brother, John. John Seed, _licenced attorney_ , I might add, but we simply couldn’t drag him away from the glamour of showbiz.” 

_Ah, so he was the Mouthpiece of the family._

Joseph was still drawling on, but the immediate spark in the room hadn’t gone unobserved.

“John is our creative director. But he’ll still get us out of a tight spot if we need it. And, we certainly have found we need it. John, this is The Rook. He’s a singer. Been playing circuits in Chicago, Detroit, St Louis, New Orleans. Now, he’s here in Atlanta and decided he’d swing by. I thought he’d do well opening up the show tomorrow. A headline act for our headline spectacular.”

John’s eyes gleamed with recognition.

“So, a star walks among us! A _real_ star!” He called back over his shoulder to Faith, who huffed and stormed from the stage, heels thumping on the wooden boards. The other girls sauntered away behind her, not unused to such tantrums and long intervals while all parties involved cooled off. “ _HEY, WHO SAID YOU COULD TAKE A BREAK?_ ” 

“Don’t go too hard on the girls, especially on the kid,” The Rook lit his own cigarette, offering out his silk lined case to Joseph (who promptly declined) since the proprietor’s brother had neglected to do so. He gestured after Faith. “So she’s more cherub than angel right now... we all gotta start somewhere. Right... _John_?” 

Oh, he liked that name on his tongue. 

It tasted… _naughty._

There was _sin_ in John’s eyes. A sin of hushed sweet nothings, and sordid encounters amongst the ropes and tethers backstage, and cries of ecstasy that would rival the nightingale as the sun rose.

“If you say so. But you just fell right out of the nest and flew, I heard?”

“God works in mysterious ways, I guess.”

“Meaning?”

The Rook took a long drag and felt the smoke caress his throat, and he wondered- when his immortal soul was dragged to the depths of the universe for what he was about to say, would the Devil roll him cigarettes filled with sulphur and brimstone?

“I ain’t exactly getting down on my knees every night. Not for _God_ anyway.”

A titter of giggles from the stage.

And The Rook could see the _strain_ in John’s trousers.

“Blasphemy _and_ innuendo? You’re _spoiling_ me, Mr Rook, just as you are with your commitment to your craft… and to your _metaphors_ . A migration south for the winter, the distinctive plumage, attracted to the shinier things in life, no doubt. You truly are a little _birdie_ . Don’t tell me you’re _monogamous_ too?”

There it was.

The _invitation._

The Rook let his tongue wet his lips.

"Not yet I'm not."

A shiver seemed to pass through John’s body, the hairs on his forearms tingling gently, soft, as though he were a dandelion seed. He glanced away and stubbed his cigarette into a nearby ashtray, which had obviously been scrubbed to within an inch of its life by their absent barkeep. “Well, doll, far as I’m concerned, God’s got _everything_ to do with it. If you got it, you got it. If you ain’t, you ain’t. _Someone’s_ gotta make that choice.” 

The Rook gave another mischievous smile.

“You think _I_ got it?” 

John exhaled a cloud of smoke and moved towards him, leaning forward to murmur in his ear. The Rook, startled by the sudden proximity, could smell his cologne, rich and sweet with scents of musk and spice. Feel hot breath between his shirt collar and the supple flesh of his neck. _Jesus Christ_ , he wanted to feel his teeth _nibbling_ there, _sucking_ until he bruised. Have his tongue _drag_ across his chest, taste his sweat soaked body in the heat, the salt _oh so sweet_ . Know what it was to have his slender fingers wrapped around his throat, choking him out, lungs straining, as he _fucked_ him into Heaven and beyond.

“You know what _I_ think?”

The Rook simply shook his head, unable to form words.

John chuckled softly and whispered:

“I think I’ll see you later for rehearsal, sweet cheeks.” 

Then he pulled away and turned on his heel with a dramatic swish of his hips. And as he strode back to the awaiting gaggle of Angels, he called over his shoulder with a teasing grin and a wink:

“Sun up, you’re here, doll! Don’t be late! PLACES, LADIES-”

Oh, The Rook had _every_ intention of being _early._

Maybe he’d get a little _warm up_ beforehand?

“You’ll have to forgive my brother” Joseph apologised, despite The Rook being just as flagrantly guilty of lewd suggestion, “This is one of the few places he can… _express_ himself.”

A familiar sentiment, one hard to swallow in this apparent age of enlightenment, where man could build roads in the sky, and women could vote, and any hardworking craftsman or idle-handed good-for-nothing could step onto Ellis Island and call himself an American. And yet such was the nature of freedom- _conditional._

No liquor… and no loving the one you want to love.

“Not a worry, Mr Seed. I’ve met all sorts on my way. I've _been about a bit_ , if you catch my drift."

Joseph murmured a quiet 'ah' and The Rook could see him grappling with wanting to warn him not to get involved with his brother, to not fool around as so many had done before… and with a curiosity of just what would happen if he _did_.

When he didn't pursue it, the singer could only assume he’d gone with the second.

"Well, I believe that is everything for tonight, Mr Rook. And I believe that you also understand how shipshape we like to keep things. Cleanliness is close to godliness, and _efficiency_ is one step closer."

"I’ll keep that in mind, sir."

The two men made their way back to the entrance in respectful silence for the rehearsal, which was quickly descending into another rambunctious slinging match. It seemed Faith was now whining about her costume, not enough flowers, or gold or not distinctive enough from her chorus dancers. Whatever it was, The Rook had little sympathy. Sure, it was a tough world for anyone who chose to take to the stage, even more so for a woman and a young one at that. But a misplaced bit of lace was _inconsequential_.

Out of the splendour of the speakeasy, back into the dingy bookshop.

“So you will indeed be back tomorrow?”

The Rook affixed his hat back upon his head.

“Yessir. Bright and early. Well, _dark_ and early in these winter times.”

Nodding, Joseph offered his hand and The Rook shook it smartly.

“Until the morning, Mr Rook. God be with you. And truly… don't be late. As you may have gathered, John doesn't take kindly to artists of the lackadaisical breed. And watch those vocal chords in the night air. He won't sympathise if you’re croaking like a frog either."

"Gotcha. Goodnight, Mr Seed."

"Goodnight, Mr Rook."

Now, The Rook stepped out into the night air, feeling the witching hour descending as the door closed swiftly behind him. He pulled his jacket tighter around his shivering body, wishing he’d the money for a proper coat, and took off towards the not-such-comfort of his motel room. Maybe he’d be able to charm the lady at the desk for a cup o’Joe to warm him through before sleep? 

But he took not ten steps from the bookstore, approaching the road to cross, when an elderly bespectacled man in a beige trenchcoat stepped into his path.

_Oh, great._

“Looking for a bedtime story, son? Bit overdressed, aren’t you?” The man wheezed in raspy tones.

The streetlamps flickered. 

Guttering, threatening to plunge them into darkness.

_Seems all the devils are out tonight._

“Thought I’d put on my Sunday best,” The Rook knew the fuzz when he saw them. He found himself wondering why the old man would have such a vendetta against liquor and those who partook, when he looked like he would actually be all the better for a drop of whisky or two. “Can never be overdressed for the Lord.” 

“Well, the Lord certainly keeps odd business hours,” A younger detective moved from nearby shadows to stand beside him, with a haircut that looked like he did it himself. He had a bruised eye where he’d been punched recently, and a cocky smile that made The Rook take an instant dislike to him. So much so that he shot him a glare that rivaled Medusa’s and said:

“So does your mamma, but that didn’t stop me.”

The detective’s mouth dropped in outrage. 

And he began to splutter:

“Now, hold it Mister-!”

The older man placed a hand on his shoulder to silence him. The Rook, however, couldn’t care less. He felt his ears getting numb under his hat. He rubbed his fingers together, and between the veins below and the friction above, wondered if he were now red, white and blue enough to kick Coolidge out of office. And he’d sort out this prohibition nonsense once he got there too.

“Now, son. This here is Detective Pratt. I’m Detective Whitehorse.” Whitehorse released his junior colleague’s shoulder with all the world weariness of a grandfather who had long forgotten how to change diapers. “We work outta the tenth precinct.”

The Rook went to move on.

"Gentlemen, I'm not in the business of lawyering up tonight. I got a train to Dreamland to catch. Now, if you’ll excuse me-"

He smiled faintly at the officers to show that while he meant no disrespect (though he meant nothing _but_ ), he had no intention of gracing them with conversation in the middle of the street, so early in the morning… _especially_ considering his line of work. He could almost feel the cautious eyes of the Seed family scrutinizing him from the cracks in the speakeasy walls.

_"It's my job to notice."_

John's voice, sweet and molten like hot molasses, in his ears. 

The Rook sure hoped he wasn't noticing this little rendezvous.

Old Gumshoe Whitehorse put his arm out to block his way, and The Rook knew he wouldn't be getting out of this one any time soon. So he reflected on the churlish pout that he had witnessed Faith Jessop parade upon her face, and brought a glimmer of it to his own. Letting the discourteous officers know exactly what he thought about being held against his will in the middle of the street on a cold winter’s night.

Whitehorse flinched a little at the sight of it, but didn't back down.

“Now son, I’m sure you don’t want any trouble. You’re a young man, you got girls to woo, a momma to look out for, and I know you ain’t a chump. You ain’t got time to be consortin’ with Joseph Seed and his family."

His breath was hazing up the crisp air.

"You ain’t got time to be spendin’ with them in the Big House, do you son?”

The Rook wished his brain wasn’t slightly foggy from the Bliss. That he wasn’t _delirious_ from the encounter with John. He could still smell his cologne, imprinted into the fibres of his jacket, and it was blurring the edges and lines of this smoky morning into a watercolour painting.

“Who says Preacher Seed is goin’ to prison?”

“We do,” Detective Pratt spat onto the street, and grinned again.

Detective Whitehorse gave Pratt a hard stare, and closed his coat against the wind. The Rook longed again for the shelter of his motel room. Even with the stained sheets, and the moans of the live-in janitor next door as he jerked off, and the smell of something dead behind the armoire.

“Kid, I’m gonna be straight with you. We’re lookin’ to haul the whole lot in on bootleggin’ and bribery charges. Joseph, and his no-good brothers.”

_That includes John._

_… Why do I feel so protective? You got two hands, Rook, you can use them as much as he could. Don’t take a fall for a guy you’ve known twenty minutes... even if you do wanna know him twenty minutes more._

“So what, what does that have to do with me?”

A shrug.

Uncertainty.

Or was that… _embarrassment?_

“Well…” Whitehorse cleared his throat, “We... We need someone on the inside. Someone to drop a dime every now and again. Tell us where the operation goes down.”

The Rook thought back to the piles of shredded Bibles and textbooks, to the walls that had been ripped apart by impatient hands. To the crucifix and the key, so beautifully concealed within Joseph’s Seed’s white leather bound Bible. And he couldn’t help the smirk that stretched across his lips. Pushed his shoulders back to stand to his full height. Gave that sparkle in his eye that had charmed many a fella at a bar, and many a soul for a favour or two. And through his derisive snort, he said:

“And you think _I’m_ the guy for the job? Some sap off the street?”

“We _know_ who you are, Mr Rook.” Detective Pratt blurted angrily, earning another stern look from his superior.

The Rook felt his stomach leap.

How? 

Had someone turned over his photograph? Had he been followed from Nashville, or, curse the thought, from his time in the North? Some agent from New York, perhaps? Was he on a list somewhere… did they _know_ about his… _lifestyle choices_?

He tried to play it cool. 

Powdering his face with the same careless, dismissive smile he normally saved for women who tried to flirt with him at stage doors.

“So what? Singing ain't a crime.”

“No it ain’t, but the folks you’re singing for got dirt all over ‘em. Blood on their hands too. Just last week, a fella was found floatin’ in the sewers, carved up, with his tongue cut out. Fella _known_ to do business with Joseph Seed.” Whitehorse ensured there was enough threat in his voice that for the first time in his life, The Rook suddenly saw himself in a concrete cell block, watching men shit in a communal bucket and laugh at the unfortunate whose turn it was to dance on the gallows, 

“What are you sayin’?”

“I’m sayin’ who’s to say you ain’t up to your eyeballs in it too? Who’s to say you ain’t one of them? Who’s to say, you ain’t _next_?”

Detective Pratt was right at his shoulder, leering as though he’d caught a mouse in a trap. As though he was watching it _squirm_ as it suffocated.

The Rook’s voice wobbled as he replied:

“Far as I’m concerned, Pastor Seed is a fine upstanding Christan who helped me see a little holy light on this dark day.” And he gestured forcefully back towards the shop with a slightly blue thumb. “And if you wanna couple of pointers from the Lord about how to be better cops, the door is right there. Otherwise, you chose the _wrong_ chump.”

“Mr Rook-”

“ _Goodnight_ , officers.”

He pushed past, breaking free, shoulder thumping into Pratt’s in his haste. Feathers torn from their delicate stitching, to waft gently to the dewey floor. He didn’t even think to retrieve them. Thrusting his hands into his pockets, he kept his eyes lowered, counting the cracks in the tarmac, careful not to step on any, until he reached the street’s end. There was not a ghost of a footstep behind him. No protestations from the huntsmen who had laid their snares at his feet. Not even the flutter of a pigeon’s wings.

And when he turned back to gaze back at the silhouette of Eden’s Gate, the sidewalk was abandoned. Not a cop in sight. Grey and dismal. Embossed with the hallmarks of thievery, smashed glass and shredded garbage. Devoid of beauty, as though the street were as ordinary as any other. He knew he’d have to watch his back from now on, be certain he wasn’t followed on his way to rehearsal… but somehow that wasn’t a worry right now.

Instead, he could hear _secrets_.

Hidden away amongst the misery.

Trumpets.

Quiet.

 _Beautiful_.

Almost as though they bled through from Heaven itself, far beyond the clouds.

He could see the gold and green reflecting on his skin.

Feel the floor spring beneath his feet. 

Taste the mist from his martini glass.

And as he moved away into the fog of the night, he sang to himself:

_“Was blind but now I see.”_

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I hope you enjoyed part one! This is going to be a very distant update probably, but now that we're all at home, I have a lot of time to write, so who knows!
> 
> All my love to cannibal-cat!
> 
> As usual, you can follow me on Tumblr at unclefungusthegoat!
> 
> Take care,  
> Chloe x


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